Will I Get Water Up My Nose?

I suspect that there aren't going to be many constructed strands to this blog. It's what I want it to be when I sit down to type, I'm not gonna bother defining it, because then I'll feel compelled to meet my promises having set out my stall. I'd much rather this was all kind of stream of consciousness, know what I mean?

Have you noticed how many non-emergency service vehicles have taken to sporting emergency service attire? I'm talking about the window repairers, tree surgeons, pet rescuers, even your common-or-garden electricians and plumbers. Have you seen how they hang out in the middle lane on the motorway, watching with glee as you tear up the outside pushing the ton, before noticing the 'police vehicle' ahead and slamming on your anchors? Until you come alongside and realise you've just reacted to Big Dave's Vehicle Rescue?

Do you feel the same urge I do to wind down your nearside window and extend your middle finger incontravertibly in the driver's direction? Just before arming your rear-mounted RPG launcher and blowing the smug fuck off the road? Well, I do and I suspect I am not alone. I'd love to hear from you if you share my heightened sense of emotion on this subject.

Talking of emotion, the World Cup is on as I'm sure many of you might have noticed. I have to confess to being a complete anti-footy activist - though of course when England play, it's OK. But as for your day-to-day following of a football team: going to all the matches, buying all the programmes and keeping them up in the loft, heading away from home a few times each season, getting really irate about players, managers or owners - that's all far too much for me.

Sport is fine (especially rugby and cricket) but following it with nigh-religious...scratch that, supra-religious...fervour leaves me a little cold. I do have friends - most of them in fact - who will disagree with me, who will cry when England exit the World Cup (and did), who will tell me I am a heathen or not even a proper man. But there you have it. I don't find myself sitting in the gutter crying in public quite as often. To be honest, the reason I like the World Cup is that I get to see lots of my mates over some beers. However, conversation topics do tend to be limited in the circumstances.

Anyway, a strange thing happened to me during England's final match against Portugal in the Quarter Finals. Once Beckham had retired hurt and Rooney had left the pitch for stamping, the team began to play with a new vigour - they were running rings around Portugal in terms of passing, possession and attack.

What stunned me was the insistent advice from BBC commentators John Motson and Mark Lawrenson that England should play for penalties..."it's the only thing they can do." So...sorry...Rooney is off halfway through the second half (you have 25 minutes left to play in normal time), but the team is advised by the commentators to go for the draw in the main match...and then a draw in the 30 minutes of extra time...to play for penalties?

What about...ooh, as you're all fired up, why don't you sink one, then play defensive for another 30 minutes, and we can all go home for tea in normal time and see you all in the Semis? To stupid-bastard-dont-know-nuffink-bout-footy here, what I do recall quite vividly is England's somewhat poor historical record in penalty shoot-outs. And that's going back over two decades.

Why on earth two experienced commentators would advise what they did - I know Sven had very few strikers with him, and most of them were injured or off the pitch - I can only fathom a guess. And my guess is, they are both daft as brushes. And they wanted England to lose.

Of course, the most stunning thing about all of the above is the fact that I gave even the slightest shit in the first place.

So: he likes driving. He hates football. That'll do for starters.